


Use By Date

by FrogFacey



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, I am very not used to writing in first person, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), The Corruption, but that's the corruption for you I guess, lots of talk about unsanitary things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24232897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrogFacey/pseuds/FrogFacey
Summary: Statement of Marsha Brownstein regarding her time spent working at the Grimm Family Antique and Bookstore and subsequent parasite. Original statement given March 6th, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.
Kudos: 7





	Use By Date

**Author's Note:**

> General warning for discussion of disease, mould and food waste.
> 
> So I have this character for a story with absolutely nothing to do with tma (the whole reason I started listening to it was to make sure I didn't just accidentally make an oc whoops) so I decided to write a statement for her? I had to tweak her backstory a little to actually fit into one entity but this is more or less how it actually played out.

## ARCHIVIST

Statement of Marsha Brownstein regarding her time spent working at the Grimm Family Antique and Bookstore and subsequent parasite. Original statement given March 6th, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

## ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

I think the longer something has existed, the easier it is for it to fall into old hands. Does that sound mean? I… I mean it's easier to reach out to things you understand, right?

I'm not sure what it was about the books exactly. I can't say there was anything special about antique washing machines so it must have been the books. It must have been.

I started working at the antique shop last year. It was quite easy, really, I already dress like I work somewhere old and dusty and they didn't ask much about my history. I just rambled something about being an assistant librarian and they left me on my way.

I needed the job. I'd just come out of one of the worst relationships of my life and I don't have much contact with my family. My sister is out of the question entirely, she left when I was around 12. I'm 24 now, by the way. I'm not sure if that makes the situation better or worse, honestly.

I figured telling one or two lies wouldn't get me in too much trouble, anything I didn't know I could always just lookup. I could learn on the fly if need be.

From what I gathered, the shop had been in the family since the late 20s. They'd always been obsessed with antiques, their names were antique as well. Theodore and August were the ones in charge when I worked there, brothers in their late 40s with only a year or so between them. Our customers usually consisted of people looking for things to add to their witchy collections, tourists in search of something less kitschy for a souvenir or weepy families letting go of the last ties to long-dead loved ones. It was depressing work most days, but my job was really only slapping price tags on things and sorting books. It was Theodore in charge of caring for the actual antiques, so I was at the back of the shop most days.

Though, something had drawn me to the place. Whether it was the cosy interior or just the fact that my bosses were nice enough, it was something big, something out of my control.

I'd come back late one night, I can't remember why. I might have left my glasses inside, maybe?

The gravel of the car park crunched under the tires as my ancient car wheezed to a stop in front of the building. It was dark inside, from what I could see through the dirty windows.

I'd pushed the old, wooden door open with my shoulder, the corner always stuck where it had splintered and it took a bit of force to get it open, especially when the weather was heating up.

The air inside the shop was suffocating. It was always so warm in there. Do you know the smell of mould? The kind with the spores that float thickly through the air when disturbed, the kind that sticks to old food and forgotten cutlery under beds. I used to have to clean up after my father, our dishwasher was broken but he never seemed to notice. The amount of mould I had to clean, the plates caked in weeks old frozen vegetables I had to throw away. That's what it felt like in that shop. The smell of age curled around that place and clung to everything it touched.

You know? In the two years I'd worked there, they'd never gotten me to dust. The place was filthy all the time. The kind of filth that only set in after you'd spent hours and hours every day trapped inside it.

It definitely wasn't helped by the fact that the shelves were too close together for any more than one person to fit through. Half of the collection was just stacked on the floor, spilling over the scuffed hardwood. It was a nightmare to get through, harder in the dark. I was squeezing past a cramped bookshelf when I felt it. 

My fingers brushed something wet and warm and soft and definitely alive. I think it's important to know that I have problems with quite a few textures. I feel my teeth sting when I touch tomatoes and anything slimy makes my skin crawl and I need to sit down and breathe for a moment.

As you can see, whatever it was spreading over the spine of that book, it was bad. Very, very bad. I was gagging too much to spare enough mind to pull my hand back.

Instead, I could feel what was left of the book give way and my hand was plunged into the centre of a humid, writhing mass.

I screamed. Anyone would have screamed. Finally, as I felt something slither against my fingerprint, I forced myself to pull my hand back against my chest.

I spent the next minute or so with my back pressed against that shelf. I could feel the spores spreading over my neck as I inched onwards, slipping over paperback book covers and loose pages. The further I went, the worse the infection got. At points, my shoulders had pushed through and I could feel the greasy mess spill over my cardigan and into my hair.

Finally, when I got to my desk I could see where the mould had collected. I had left a book on the table, halfway through pressing a price tag onto the inside with a square of contact. Next to it sat my glasses.

The pages had stuck together with the thick mould, fluffy and putrid, peeking out between the paper. The dust cover seemed to almost melt to the table, I could see the ink seeping into the puddles left by the grime, trickling across the tabletop and dripping slowly onto the floor. Tendrils of the stuff leaked into the bookshelves, spreading through the rest of the collection like a plague.

I reached out slowly, aiming to grab my glasses and leave. The mould had barely reached them, the gold frames such a stark contrast to the dreary sense of _death_ around the place.

As my hand touched them, however, I could feel the velvety spores brush against my pinky and suddenly it was _spreading_. I could feel it, thick and heavy and slimy, through my hand and up my arm. I didn’t even realise I was screaming until my voice grew horse enough to cut out. You have to understand that despite the age of the building, the walls were still thin so someone must have heard me! There’s an apartment block across the road, cheap and nasty but people still live there. There’s a 24-hour corner store by the intersection. The shop isn’t exactly out of the way. But… No one came. No one thought to knock on the window or kick down the door or call the police! I was stuck there. Alone. The… The _infection_ soaking through the sleeves of my cardigan and growing against my veins… My bones.

I don’t remember running. I don’t remember moving at all, really.

But I must have. I woke up the next morning in my bed with my shoes still on and a damp patch forming under my right arm.

I tried to go back to normal after that but it wasn’t the most relieving to learn that August hadn’t seen any mould when he opened that morning. More than that though, I’ve been… Noticing things. My lungs feel heavier than usual when I run to catch the train in the morning. I’ve never been the most athletic but this is a new feeling. And I can feel it in my throat when I breathe, behind my eyes, against my teeth and in my tongue.

It was something about that heat, that _festering_ that sunk into my skin. Something much older than I, older than whatever it was inside those books. It’s easier to linger in something familiar, right? After all, written word has lasted longer than machines or creaky old chairs or ornate cabinets.

Do you know how it feels being a part of something so ancient? Something so much more than yourself? I tried to talk to my sister about it, she’s always talking about art and religion and the like, but it’s no use. She wants nothing to do with me, for fair reason. I can feel the gears turning, you know? I can feel the ever-present knowledge that at our core, we are something destined to decompose. We are food for the grinder, left out to spoil.

It’s eating me, that knowledge. Rotting me from the inside out.

I had to quit my job not even a month later, I could feel the place boring into me, the mould waiting for me in the corners of the shelves. They were disappointed to let me go, but I could tell that they noticed something had changed.

The mould has broken through my muscles, it’s too humid to wear my cardigan most days. People look at me differently now, they can see the grey spreading over my skin. They can smell it too, it’s such a sweet, sticky smell.

I’ve never thought of mould as sweet, every night spent scrubbing as a child I only thought of it as offensive, a strong, heavy scent that clung in your nose. This mould… It’s a welcoming change. A friendly change. It is invasive, but it is friendly. Does that make sense?

I think I’ll look for another job soon. I was lying when I said I was an assistant librarian, you need degrees for that sort of thing, but I am good with books. If they can stomach the mould, I think it would make for a fitting end.

It wants to spread, you see.

I still don't know if it was worth it. My glasses aren't even real.

## ARCHIVIST

Statement ends. 


End file.
